To My Nephew
by Turrislucidus
Summary: What if George and Georgina adopted Winifred? In a poem, Robert Frost suggests that taking the road less traveled by makes all the difference, but does it? This AU one-shot, inspired by The Vagabond Scribbler's story 'The Soldier and Winifred', using her world and characters, explores that question.


FORWARD

There are times when one reads a story, and one's imagination is inspired to say: What if? Such is the case with The Vagabond Scribbler's story, The Soldier and Winifred. Inspired by, and based on her characters, this one-shot explores the what if? that came to my mind upon reading that work. I have included as introduction, _in italics,_ a portion of her story, verbatim, to bring you, dear reader, to the point where the stories diverge.

* * *

So_ Miss Blackburn is the matron of an orphanage, thought George. And Winifred obliviously lives there. George didn't remark on this. Instead he said, ''You have a good, sensible name. Now, if you don't mind me asking, why did Blackburn bring you here if you're not invited to the stupid party?''_

_''Oh.'' Winifred made a face. ''Well, about two hours ago, Miss Blackburn took me to a gentleman's house in this town. He and his wife were looking for a girl to adopt, but they didn't really like me. I guess they chose me from the photos because they liked my face, but when they finally met me...'' she trailed off. ''I guess most grown-ups think I'm too weird. Especially Mr. and Mrs. Piker—they wanted a proper little lady, not me.''_

_''The Pikers!'' exclaimed George. ''Well! I don't know why Old Piker is looking for a girl instead of a boy to continue his business, but you can't live with him. I know him well, and he's the meanest bastard I ever had the misfortune to meet. And I've known many bastards, mark my words.''_

_Winifred laughed. ''Don't worry, Mr. Bucket. The Pikers have no intention of having me as their daughter. It's back to Tattengrove for me, and I'll stay in the orphanage until I'm old enough to move out and work. Someone's got to protect the younger kids from Miss Blackburn. I'll just avoid being adopted. I can pretend to be weirder than I am already, and nobody would want me.'' She added in a softer voice, ''It's not like I really want a new mother.''_

George let her words fade into the night's shadows. Did anyone really not want a mother? A loving mother? Someone into whose arms to run, when the world brought nothing but tears? He'd wanted somewhere to run—someone to run to—when the bombs had made the world Hell; when there was no where to run to without forsaking those who depended on him. He shuddered. He'd not do that. He'd never do that, no matter how awful the carnage got. The breath he'd sucked in so sharply he slowly exhaled. He hadn't run. He'd stayed, firing his Lee-Enfield rifle at the enemy, his comrades dying all around him, while he lived. He brought up his hand to cover his eyes. Winifred stirred on the bench beside him, turning towards his pain.

Amid the chill that soaked his bones, as it had so many times on the battlefield, Georgina's face appeared in George's mind, her eyes kind, her smile welcoming. It was this face, her face, that had been his comfort. George felt tears spring to his eyes. He looked again at the bag of sweets the girl held in her hand, the bag she was returning to her pocket, the sweets she'd made herself, with her own secret recipe. So small they were, so pathetic, and yet, so optimistic. In his mind's eye, Georgina nodded encouragingly. Sweets! Sweets to take on the world! Sweets to take on the war … The war that had taken this little girl's mother; the war that threatened still to take him. Perhaps...

"The Pikers are pikers, my dear, but everyone should have a mother," said George, clearing his throat. "My wife is at home, waiting for me. I know she'd like to have a daughter like you. Would you consider making us your family?"

Nestled in the crook of her arm, the girl nearly dropped her toy monkey, but her fingers clutched it before it could fall. "You would do that?"

Until a moment ago, George would have said 'no'. Adding another mouth when the two he was responsible for were almost too much, had not been his intention when he'd begun this walk; when he'd begun this conversation. "I, we, can't offer you very much. My job with Mr. Piker doesn't pay very much…"

"I don't need very much," she offered, her back straightening with hope. Then hope left her, and she slumped once more, resting her pale cheek on her toy monkey. "But what about the children at the orphanage? Who will take care of them?"

"An orphanage is a big responsibility for a little girl."

Winifred sighed, her fingers finding the leather of her mother's diary. She wasn't a little girl, she was fourteen, and an old fourteen at that—knowing your mother's face had been shot off at close range did that to one—but even so, maybe fourteen _was_ too young to be responsible for an orphanage. In fact, she had little influence there; it was the comfort of her arms that she could offer the little ones, the promise that it would be alright, even when she knew that for her, it never would be. Tears filled her eyes, and one spilled.

George rested his arm across her shoulders. Flinching at first, her stoicism surrendered to compassion, and she leaned against him. "Is it as bad as all that, Winifred, dear? You were ready to be adopted by the Pikers." She seemed uncertain. "We can report the orphanage, if you like. We can report Miss. Blackburn. She has no business leaving you alone on a bench like this."

"No." Her voice was a whisper. "No, she doesn't, and she shouldn't have, and—"

"And what?"

"And she does give me all the ingredients I ask for to make my candies. I suppose that's nice."

"I suppose it is. Shall we surprise her? Shall we do something nice for you, and for Georgina, and me? Where is this dinner party?" The old soldier got to his feet, ready to take command, his arm held high, an imaginary sword in his hand, waving in the breeze, underscoring his words. "Take me to it!"

"I don't know where it is," Winifred giggled, the tips of her fingers finding her ruby lips. "They left me here, and then went."

George lowered his arm. "Then we'll wait until Miss. Blackburn returns." He sat, collecting himself. Winifred, beside him, blinked her eyes, rapidly.

"Do you really want me? You don't think I'm too weird? I talk to myself, you know."

"Talk to yourself! My dear child, my Georgina could give you lessons."

* * *

In the end, they didn't wait, they went to George's home. Though happily married—a must—with his salary, adoption would be a hard-fought battle, but not if George had some leverage with the orphanage. Miss. Blackburn, losing one of her charges to the night by leaving her to fend for herself on a park bench, was just the weapon to win the conflict.

Sure enough, frantic, Miss. Blackburn had found the note George had left for her, and, in return for George not reporting her negligence, she agreed to put through the papers without fuss.

Winifred had found the perfect family, and her life changed. Gone was the loneliness, and misfit feeling: here, she fit like a hand in a glove. Pooling their cash, and by spending every extra penny on ingredients—and even pennies that weren't extra—with her candy sensations, taffy among them, Winifred pulled them all out of poverty. It was Joe who had the idea that really turned things around.

"Let's open a candy store. We can all work there, and Winifred will invent the candies, as she always has."

"Lets," said Winifred, beaming, her dark-chocolate hair, still in the austere bob she favored, swinging gently as she nodded.

They did as Joe said, using a falling down stationary store nobody wanted, and the endeavor was a huge success. Everyone wanted Winifred's candies! In no time, the store was restored to its former glory, its paneled walls and glass cases gleaming.

"Do I still have to go to school?" she'd asked, as the money rolled in.

"I don't see why," answered Georgina, taking Winifred's hands, and dancing with her in a circle, as if around a maypole. "We'll get you a tutor, and you can learn here."

Between the store and her studies, Winifred's days were full. The years passed. Winifred, living only for her work that she loved about all else, never married. Being tutored at home had cut her off from the world, and she never saw the point of re-connecting. The stork brought children to her adopted families, and the children grew up. "I think we need a bigger store," said Winifred.

She decided to build a proper Factory, fifty times as big as any other. Two great bas relief 'W's—for Winifred Wellington—spilled from chocolate barrels, intertwining with each other over the massive gates. Watching it go up, the family's eyes shone as brightly as the shining white stones that made it. Years later, the children, who had grown up and married each other, asked an aging Winifred what she intended to do with her amazing Factory, when she became too old to run it. "Why," she answered, with a twinkle in her violet eyes, "I'm going to give it to your son, of course! To Charlie, my nephew!" She laughed, and the sun shone. "It'll be Charlie's Chocolate Factory. Won't that be nice?"

"Yes," said the happy couple, their hands as entwined as the 'W's they were standing under. "It would."

* * *

THE END

* * *

_And there ya have it. Paths cross, and lives change. Willy Wonka? Never born; never happened; never heard of him; and yet, if the ultimate point of the original story is that the Chocolate Factory becomes _Charlie's_ Chocolate Factory, fate will find its way to the same end. I hope you've enjoyed this story, making this point, using these characters that are not mine. _


End file.
